


keep thy hands from falling

by moxis



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: AU - Demon/Priest, Dubious Consent, Knotting, M/M, Religious Guilt, Sex Demon, sorry no eggs, the most drawn-out smut you'll ever read i'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 22:30:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13599768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moxis/pseuds/moxis
Summary: There is a man who's been coming to church lately.





	keep thy hands from falling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaybreadstick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaybreadstick/gifts).



> obviosly based on frigidloki’s [wonderful art](http://frigidloki.tumblr.com/post/170108749588), which i hope it lives up to... mlep
> 
> title is from a purity ring song

There is a man who's been coming to church lately.

There is nothing remarkable about him, not in the way he acts nor the way in which he does not speak within the walls of the temple. He appears in the early dawn, or at night when only a few sleepless remain, praying in silence. He does not make a sound as he walks the aisles, his black coat blending into the shadows between the pillars, sometimes stopping to stare intently at the shapes of the saints that line the spaces between the tall glass windows.

Colress had never seen the man before the day he stepped in for the first time. Unsurprising, considering his secluded habits, but nevertheless disconcerting for a man who was familiar with almost every face who frequented the temple. He would have approached him on that first morn, ready to offer his assistance or instruction, in case he was a curious visitor who was not familiar with the happenings of the church.

Their meeting had happened not by his design, however, as he opened the front door to the church one early dawn, only to be met by a figure waiting outside.

There was a moment of mutual surprise, as the man turned to look up at him and Colress took in his appearance, still shadowed by the murk of the clinging night. Quite shorter than he was, and wearing a long dark coat that failed to hide his lean frame. On his face were a pair of coloured shades, which Colress found himself immediately intrigued by, considering the lighting they had found themselves in.

"Good morning," he remembered himself and greeted the stranger, "may I help you?"

The man eyed him with a neutral expression, taking a moment to respond. "I was only wondering when this church opened. I seem to have arrived earlier than appropriate." His voice was crisp, his accent polished.

"These doors are always open. You are welcome to enter whenever you need."

The man had smiled then, a thin line like he was holding something back, then nodded and entered the building as Colress stepped aside to let him in.

He had not seen him again that day, had been on his way out to perform some errands, and by the time he returned the visitor was nowhere to be seen. He escaped his mind until the night of the following day, hours after evening prayer, when Colress noticed him by the side chapel, looking up at one of the smaller stained glass windows that decorated the side aisles of the building.

It was then when he approached him, footsteps echoing around the mostly empty nave.

"Good evening," he opens this time, "it is good to see you back today."

"How so?" The man turns to look at him. "I haven't done anything to have you hope for my return."

Colress falters, unsure if this is a case of purposeful hostility, or merely a show of dry wit he should ignore. He opts for sidestepping the question. "I realise I did not have the mind to introduce myself yesterday."

"You are the priest here." He says it not as a question, not entirely a statement; as if wondering aloud and not expecting a reply.

"Indeed. My name is Colress. If you are ever in need anything, please don't hesitate to ask."

He'd had more to say, but the shorter man's piercing gaze pins him down and his mouth feels dry. The weak candlelight of the late hours is a scarce improvement over the shadows of dawn they had first met by, and bathes the stranger's face in a red glow. The edge of his glasses gleams as he tilts his head.

"I will be sure to remember."

As Colress turns and walks away from him, he can feel eyes on his back.

 

* * *

 

The man, who Colress belatedly realises did not offer his name in return, visits every few days, usually late in the evening, sometimes just before dawn, never during a service. He walks the aisles and enters the chapels, but Colress never sees him sit nor pray. During his short visits he spends his time observing the worn out frescos and stone reliefs that cover the walls, stopping to read the plaques on the walls and sometimes flipping through any books that have been left around for study.

He does introduce himself as Faba the next time they speak, but doesn't share any more personal details. From his attire Colress can guess he is not bad off, and he looks quite a bit older than him, but beyond that, the type of life he leads is a mystery. He proves polite enough, convincing Colress that his momentary unease was unfounded and unfair. The man —Faba— may have an acerbic personality at times, but that should not be reason enough to judge or distrust him. No matter the kind of man he turns out to be, Colress has to be a pillar of faith and trust for those around him. He is determined to be.

It is only by his unusual sleeping habits that they ever meet at all. Sleep hasn't come easy to him for many years now, and he often finds himself awake at the deepest hours of the night, which he spends wandering the hallways, reading, or praying in church. Now, on those nights where he visits the main building he makes a point of walking the length of it, in case he encounters this elusive night time visitor. When he does, they exchange pleasantries but there is no conversation, instead each going about their own business. There is nothing out of the ordinary about it all. But he is almost certain the man watches him every time he prays or changes the candles. He can feel his eyes on the back of his neck. The same eyes that watch him closely when he speaks, locking on his own, on his hands, on his lips.

It is only on his way to the church for the third night that week, crossing the small courtyard that lies between it and the adjacent living quarters, when he realises just how much the man occupies his mind, so far as to influence his routine. He feels the abrupt need to turn back the way he came, stopping by a bush of mirabilis next to the well to collect himself. But an equally strong force tempts him towards the church, and he finds himself stepping inside after all.

Faba isn't there that night, and he is stricken by a wave of displeasure promptly followed by shame, which he swallows hard and attempts to ignore. When he returns to his quarters he gives in and kneels next to his bed in prayer, and does not rise for some time.

The next day his mind is clear, and for the first time he does not scan the faces in the crowd during morning prayer, if only because by now he knows he won't find him there. This is true for the rest of the day, and the next, as he focuses on his duties and does not think about the stranger.

That night Colress wakes up gasping, clutching at his sheets as though he were falling. Eyes wide open in the dark, he tries to regain control of his breathing and waits for his racing heart to slow down. By the time he sits up and rubs his face, clammy and hot with what must be sweat but might be tears, the last vestiges of his dream are gone and he is left with an empty feeling of solitude.

He moves almost unconsciously as he dresses, slowly, his mind blank as he attempts and fails to remember anything at all about the nightmare. He knows he will not be falling back asleep that night, and has no desire to regardless.

He makes his way once more to the church, looking up at the tall stone building, dark against a backdrop of stars. The air is cold and burns his throat as he breathes deeply. It's late, or perhaps early, too deep into the night to discern any remnant of twilight or hint of dawn.

The inside is hardly warmer, merely granting respite from the humidity outside. The candles offer dim light but most corners of the building are bathed in inky darkness, each pillar cutting dark stripes on the walls and floors around them. Often there will be one or two figures among the pews, even at night, but it is late enough that the room is completely empty, with an air of having sat in silence for hours.

Colress looks to the altar, thinking maybe some of the chandeliers there could use some new candles, when a sound behind him startles him. He turns and comes face to face with Faba, half-hidden by the shadow of a pillar next to him. Not so empty after all.

"Good evening. I was hoping to meet you tonight," he says, and Colress ponders how he had failed to notice the man just now, not even hearing the sound of his heels on the stone floor. He swallows, somewhat unnerved at the image of him standing in the shadows, watching him.

"Good evening," he replies, "it is rather late for a visit, don't you think?" It is the first time he comments on it, and doesn't expect an explanation. If anything, the man could reproach him for the exact same thing.

Faba steps towards him, looking him in the eye with an expression he can't make out. Colress has to steel himself to avoid stepping back, as if the man's very presence felt threatening. He chastises himself for it mentally. The man in front of him —a scrawny, older man who was barely the height of his chin, no less— had never shown any malicious intent, or done anything to otherwise merit distrust. And yet Colress can feel his every hair stand on end as he approaches him.

To his surprise, however, Faba drops to his knees before him, hanging his head.

"Forgive me, Father. I have a confession to make."

Colress is stunned for a second, surprised at both the motion and the request of the man at his feet. He does not know what he expected, and feels a pang of guilt at his own wariness once again. "Of course, my child. Please stand, I'll show you to the confessional."

Faba rises, his head low, his voice lower still. "I'm afraid I've sinned terribly."

"Our Lord is very forgiving." He leads him away to one of the rooms in the back, intensely aware of the presence behind him as he does so, but not letting it trouble him. Faba's heels click on the stone like an echoing clock. "Please, come in."

Once inside, he walks behind the screen, leaving Faba to kneel on the other side if he so wishes. Colress sits facing away from him, and takes a deep breath before lifting his joined hands to his chest, trying to clear his head. "Tell me, child... what sins have you come to confess?"

There is a beat of silence, almost long enough to think the man behind him has changed his mind and left. Then a voice rumbles behind him, all around him, inside his skull and through his chest, and his stomach flips as the words seize his insides.

" _Oh, where to start..._ "

Something grips his shoulder then, hard enough to shake him, and terror bubbles up within his chest, nearly overflowing but trapped in his throat, for he cannot scream, cannot breathe as he looks to see a dark, clawed hand next to his face. He's spun around, wrenched out of his seat and against the wall, his back hitting it hard but sparing his skull the impact. He is still frozen as he opens the eyes, but the sight before him has him gasping for air.

The eyes before him are the same ones that have haunted him for so long now, behind every stray thought and forgotten nightmare, caustic and sharp, ever obscured by that red glass. They are the same, but black in colour now, deep and lurid and pulling him in farther and deeper than they ever had before.

The hand at his shoulder has released him in favour of gripping his jaw, just hard enough to hold him in place, and as he feels another set of claws digging into his hips he feels very, very trapped. When he speaks, Colress can see fangs lining the inside of his mouth, opening into a grisly smile.

"Let's start here."

His voice is guttural and ghastly, but recognisable in its timbre and accent. Colress reels at the breath sent his way, cloying and hot beyond measure. His hands, flat against the wall behind him, rise to his chest, grasping at the pendant there. His voice wavers as he begins what he hopes is an accurate recital of a ritual he can barely recall. The man —the creature— before him narrows its eyes but then just hangs its head, laughing, giving him full view of a pair of small horns above its ears.

"What you are attempting," it looks up at him through a sneer, and Colress finds himself unable to tear his eyes away once more, "is folly. I am no walking corpse, no poisoned mind. You will find no way to expel me, for I am in control of nothing more than my own flesh."

And it's true. He has witnessed exorcisms before, has seen firsthand the rituals and the spells that went into the purification of a defiled soul. He has never personally performed a rite of such degree, but he knows the signs of the possessed and has studied the ways with which to deal with them. But what stands before him is something that escapes his understanding and has him freezing up in terror both physically and mentally. And yet his heart races, unchecked, prompted by the terror, the adrenaline, and the scent of the body before him.

The hand on his face softens to caress his cheek, and Colress' head spins with a fever-like heat. "W-what..." He hears his voice like it's not his own, and doesn't quite know what he's asking. Perhaps about the nature of this being, or what it wants from him, or maybe just an explanation to the fierce heat irradiating off every inch of its skin.

"You cannot fathom how tasty you look," the creature offers, as if answering one of his questions, "so gentle and kind. A respectable man in every way. An inspiring figure to those who follow you. A pure heart. But you are not pure, nobody is. I can see right through you, at all the swirling apathy within. That lovely cynicism you hide behind self-righteousness," it grabs a hand with its own, and bends his head down to brush its lips against its wrist. "How can I resist."

Colress' eyes widen, and his heart might quicken if it wasn't already at its limit. "You cannot poison me," he manages to breathe out, eyes glued to its lips, now running over his knuckles. "Demon. You prey on desire, but you will find none here."

Black eyes snap back to his, and hold his gaze as he slowly slips two fingers into its mouth. Colress struggles to suppress a gasp as he feels the scorching heat within, and the tongue pressing against them. His entire body reacts, tensing up, and when the demon sucks in as he pulls his fingers out, Colress cannot help the whine that escapes his own lips.

"Resist, then."

He is being mocked, challenged. A part of him is screaming those same words at himself, has been for a while. But to his dismay they grow ever fainter, overpowered by the hammering of his heart and the blood pounding in his ears. So his body remains frozen, burning. Static save for the trembling of his lips and a hardness he cannot deny any longer.

"You have a sharp mind, but a weak heart. You would not be here if it were otherwise." The demon grins, relishing his silence. Colress cannot discern if it means his current plight at his hands, or something else. Perhaps his duty to the church, his lifelong commitment.

"What would man so wise" it punctuates its words with a swish of his tail, which Colress only notices then, poking under the edge of his coat, "be doing in a temple of fools."

"There is strength of heart in compassion and faith" he replies against his better judgement, voice surprisingly steady, earning a cackle from the beast.

"You make me laugh. There is no strength in mercy, no power in giving. But," it lowers its voice, still holding his gaze, "since you are so fond of it, I shall have you do just that." Leaning in, lips closer than ever, voice barely above a whisper. "You will give me everything. Willingly."

Colress closes his eyes and has to hold in a shudder as the demon traces the underside of his jaw with a claw. "Absurd."

He knows he is being manipulated, toyed with in more ways than one, he can feel himself slowly, tortuously being wrapped around this creature's clawed, blackened little finger until he is unable to pull away. And yet.

There is only so much one can take before buckling. Under the the weight of unknown powers, under those hypnotic eyes and a scorching desire he was convinced had never been there before, but now feels as part of him as his very soul. Under the overpowering reek of a haze that is as sweet as it is mephitic.

So when the creature commands him, he wobbles to his knees, watching himself, dream-like, as if a spectator within his own body. And when the demon's hands undo its belt, opening its coat and presenting its length to him, he cannot think, can barely feel anything beyond heat and shame and desire.

There is no relief in the creature knowing exactly how unfamiliar Colress is with the situation. He is not ignorant, or naive, but he still feels utterly lost as he brings his lips to the dark member before him, closing them around the narrow head, then deeper, feeling its unnatural shape and the stiff ridges that line it. It feels heavy in his mouth, absurdly hot, and leaking with a taste that has his own dick pulsating with need.

The demon puts a hand on his head, and Colress can hear his breathing now, sharp inhales, and soft murmurs like in another language. He doesn't look up but knows he's being watched intently. A familiar feeling by now. His jaw already feels sore as he does his best to create suction without gagging, the edges of his lips wet with drool.

"Touch yourself," he hears above him, as the hand on his head combs through his hair gently. The voice is hynotic and commanding, and something within Colress lurches with craving, drinking up the words and coming up parched. So he obeys, one hand flying to his crotch, before his thoughts can catch up with him, and by the time he realises what he's doing, grinding his heel down on himself, the pleasure is too good to stop.

The demon purrs, still petting the back of his head. "Look at you. How the holy have been smeared. If only your god could see you now."

Colress backs away at that, turning his face and releasing a frustrated shout as he wrenches his hand away from himself, and onto the far too cold stone. He hangs his head, and in that moment is distantly aware of how their positions have been mirrored since that moment before the altar, which feels oh so long ago.

He feels stuck, pulled in two directions like a stiff rubber band, fearful of snapping. He squeezes his eyes shut, breath shuddering, only to open them again as he feels the demon crouch next to him. But it doesn't touch him, and oh, if that isn't the most twisted thing it has done thus far. Colress can feel his own body screaming out for the other, for the warmth that leaks into the air between them and for the contact of skin on skin. He can still taste its fluids on his tongue, sickly sweet. He feels like crying.

There is silence for a few seconds, save for Colress' uneven breath, before he braves looking up into the other's eyes. Out of some morbid sense of curiosity, perhaps, to know what expression they carry, or just aimless defiance. Or a plea, he thinks, as he looks into them, and they stare back, quiet, waiting.

Outside, a bell begins to sound the hour. Colress tries to count the strikes, but before he can finish he finds himself diving forward, unable to stop himself. He loses count just as he presses his lips against the other's, and forgets everything to do with time as they respond, hungrily devouring his. In that moment, the being before him feels like nothing more than a man, despite the too-hot breath and the pungent, dizzying haze about him.

Faba puts a hand on the ground to steady himself as Colress wraps his arms round his neck, overcome with the need to be as close as physically possible. The kiss is urgent and sloppy, and Colress can feel sharp fangs against his skin and tongue. He doesn't know what he's doing but he knows he wants this, and that is perhaps the scariest thought of them all.

He is lifted to his feet suddenly, still holding onto Faba's neck, as the demon grips his waist and pulls him up. Their lips separate and Faba presses his face to the crook of Colress' neck for a moment, breathing him in. And then his hands snake into his robe, travelling down and finding the clasp of his belt. Colress shudders as its undone, the clink of metal and the shifting of cloth the only sounds in the room.

"Bend over the table," the demon murmurs against his neck, and Colress obeys again, flushed, mind spinning.

He braces against the wooden surface as Faba pulls his robe up over his waist, and soon he feels both cold air and hot hands against his skin. He can't help but bury his face in his arms, as if hiding from the gaze of Arceus.

He thinks of those clawed fingers and their sharp nails, and swallows, suddenly apprehensive. To his partial relief, he feels something far larger press between his cheeks instead. Partial, because he suspects —is convinced— that he is not ready for this, will probably never will be.

But Faba doesn't push into him quite yet, taking his time to smear his wet cock over his opening. When Colress looks behind, he sees him coating himself in his own fluids, which seem much more dense and copious than human ones, and for a moment he wonders just how purposed this demon is for this kind of act. There is no mistaking its true nature; a creature of corruption who feeds on this, on human lust and carnal sin. His main tool is seduction, and he has managed to ensnare Colress to his very soul. If his mind was any clearer he might feel heartache at that.

Eventually Faba does press the pointed head of his cock into Colress, slick and wet, and it’s like nothing he’s ever experienced. His eyes close and mouth falls open, feeling the rough ridges pushing through as Faba buries himself deeper. The process is easy and fluid, in the same way it is easy to shatter glass and the stabbing of a sword can be fluid. He is convinced it has everything to do with the demon’s biology, and none with what the experience should be like otherwise. He is being pried open, and can’t help the wail that escapes him as it reaches its base, and slapping his hands over his mouth, mortified.

The demon eases out then, and thrusts back in suddenly, harder, wrenching another cry out through his fingers. He leans in close, whispering against the shell of his ear. "Don't worry. There's no one listening."

Colress doesn't miss the double meaning hidden behind those words, and although he knows better than to trust anything leaving that mouth, they shake him, leave him vulnerable and open even beyond what he was already feeling. Faba keeps moving, slowly now, but still overwhelming as Colress struggles to keep from falling apart.

He can barely grow accustomed to it all before pleasure starts building, peaking, turning him inside out. The grip on his hips borders on painful, claws digging in just enough to sting, as they are dagged back to meet Faba’s in a quickening pace. His arms threaten to give out beneath him, and he can barely feel his legs, save for the wetness dripping down his trembling thighs.

Words and whimpers spill from his mouth like desperate prayers, and when the demon grabs his hair and pulls, he arches back, seeing stars.

"Give yourself to me,” Faba growls, and the heat becomes too much then, flushing through him and setting his insides on fire as he comes undone beneath him.

Faba thrusts harder and deeper into him then, fast and desperate. He moans, burrowing his face into Colress’ shoulder, and a hand comes up to stroke him through his release like an afterthought. A pressure builds where they join, and Colress gasps as it becomes a solid sensation, streching him, filling him. He feels numb all over except for that point, and can almost feel the warmth spilling inside of him.

He takes a long minute to catch his breath as he comes down from it all. Faba is also breathing heavily above him, head still resting on his shoulder. He doesn’t feel so warm anymore, as if he’s shared it all with Colress and the disparity isn’t so noticeable anymore.

After a few moments, Colress shifts, attempting to straighten up, only to be stopped, wincing, by a strange, pull-like feeling from where Faba’s cock is still inside him.

"Don't move." A hand moves to hold his thigh in a vice-like grip, stopping him from squirming.

"Why?" His voice sounds rough and his throat hurts. A lot of things hurt. His elbows and hips feel sore from digging into the table. He thinks he might be getting bruises on his sides, or perhaps cuts where each claw dug too hard into his skin.

"Unless you want to feel excruciating pain, that is." Faba wraps his arms around his waist, much like earlier, and holds him close, very carefully sliding to sit on the floor with Colress on him, all while keeping himself buried inside. Colress allows himself to be dragged down, hissing at each small movement of him.

"Just a few minutes,” Faba murmurs, resting his forehead against Colress’ shoulder again, breathing deeply. Colress swallows, mouth dry. His head is still swimming.

He's not sure what he expected, at the end of this. Some sort or rightful punishment, a deserved smiting in consequence for his sin. Bursting into flames perhaps. At the very least.

But for now, despite the many discomforts he feels across his body, all he can focus on is the arms around him and the rising chest against his back. He can’t even bring himself to consider shame or repentance, much to his dismay. It is not apathy what ails him, but the deep, indelible realization that he would stay in this moment for all eternity, if given the chance.

His thoughts wander, slowly clearing.

“Are you going to kill me?” The question had escaped his mind a while ago now, but it resurfaces, in the face of the fact that he is currently being held in the arms of a literal creature from hell. It had taken what it wanted— had been given it all, rather, at its behest. It has no more use for him now, and might as well take his soul to hell with him. Colress can’t decide if he feels terrified or relieved.

“No need,” the demon replies simply, “all things die eventually.” He shifts, and Colress realises the bulge inside him is mostly gone now, a barely noticable pressure. Faba pulls out of him finally, earning a pained groan from Colress. “And it would be ungrateful. I can give you far better things in return.”

It might not have been his most illuminated day, but Colress has not lost touch with reality and common sense enough to not recognise this as further dangerous temptation, masked as gratitude. And yet with so little to lose and an aching within him that sits dangerously close to his heart, he is oh so tempted. Cannot even begin to imagine what the offer entails, but the silky voice and the hot breath on his neck is almost reward enough already.

And yet he begins to discern a sharp divide between what his body calls out for and what his heart desires. Subtle and twisted, and liable to tear him apart. He attempts to stand, unsteady on his feet, and has to lean on the table next to them to keep his shaky legs from failing him. His clothes are a mess he does not even wish to look at, but he fixes himself as best he can and turns back to the creature— the man, he almost wants to say, behind him.

Faba has dressed himself back to his polished self, looking just as composed as when Colress found him earlier tonight. Most importantly, his horns are gone, as are his tail and claws, and his eyes are back to normal. Or rather, back to their usual mask. Unbelievably, Colress finds it hard to meet them.

“What will the priest do now,” he mocks him, or perhaps it’s an honest question, Colress can’t tell and it drives him mad. “Don’t tell me you will stay here.”

“No. I don’t know.” He really doesn’t. In the absence of the divine and immediate punishment he had expected, he is lost, sure he cannot remain as he is, but uncertain of any alternative.

Faba steps closer, and Colress feels the absurd, irrepressible need to kiss him. So completely, utterly lost.

“Come with me,” Faba says, and it’s not an order, but perhaps a request or an offer, or both, a wreath of purpose from both their lips unspoken. Colress can’t tell if he is at last learning to read him or if it’s another trick.

“No.” _Yes_. He must be screaming it with his eyes, must be written on his every feature, because Faba smiles then, rows of human teeth, and backs away, as if he knows the distance almost physically pains him.

And when he leaves, blending into the shadows like ink in water at night, Colress has faith that he’ll be seeing him again.


End file.
